Lori Roy - Bent Road

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Table of Contents

To Bill, Andrew, and Savanna

Chapter 1

Celia squeezes the steering wheel and squints into the darkness. Her tires bounce across the dirt road and kick up gravel that rains down like hail. Sweat gathers where the flat underbelly of her chin meets her neck. She leans forward but cant see Arthurs truck. There is a shuffling in the backseat. If they were still living in Detroit, maybe driving to St. Albans for Sunday mass, she would check on Evie and Daniel. But not now. For three days she has driven, slept one night in a motel, all five of the family in one room, another in her own car, and now that the trip is nearly over, Arthur is gone.

Are we there yet, Mama? Evie says, her small voice drifting out of the backseat.

Celia presses on the brake. The car rattles beneath her hands. She tightens her grip, clenches her teeth, holds her arms firm.

No, baby, she whispers. Soon.

Can you see Daddy and Elaine? Evie says.

Not now, honey. Try to sleep. Ill wake you kids when we get to Grandmas.

Outside Celias window, quiet fields glow under the moonlight and roll off into the darkness. She knows to call them fields, not pastures. She knows the wheat will have been harvested by now and the fields left bare. On their last night in Detroit, Arthur had lain next to her in bed and whispered about their new life in Kansas. Fields are best laid flat, he had said, tracing a line down Celias neck. Wheat will rot in a low spot, scatter if its too high. Then he pulled the satin ribbon tied in a delicate bow at her neckline. Pastures, those are for grazing. Most any land will do for a good pasture.

Celia shivers, not sure if its because of the memory of his warm breath on the tip of her earlobe or the words that, like her new life, are finally seeping in. In Kansas, Arthur will be the son; she, just the wife.

As the car climbs another hill, the front tires slip and spin in the dry dirt. The back end rides low, packed full of her mothers antique linens and bone china, the things she wouldnt let Arthur strap to his truck. She blinks, tries to look beyond the yellow cone that her headlights spray across the road. Shes sure she will see Arthur parked up ahead, waiting for her to catch up. The clouds shift and the night grows brighter. Its a good sign.

From the backseat, Evie fluffs her favorite pillow, the one that Celias mother embroidered with lavender lilacs. Celia inhales her mothers perfume and blinks away the thought of her grave and Fathers, both left untouched now that Celia is gone. Taking another deep breath, she lets her hands and arms relax. Her knuckles burn as she loosens her grip. She rolls her head from side to side. Driving uphill is easier.

Broken glass, sparkling green and brown shards scattered across Willingham Avenue on a Sunday morning in the spring of 1965, had been the first sign of the move to come. This is trouble, Arthur said, dumping the glass into a trash barrel with a tip of his metal dustpan. Just kids, Celia said. But soon after the glass, the phone calls began. Negro boys, whose words tilted a different way, calling for Elaine. They used maam and sir, but still Arthur said he knew a Negros voice. A colored man had no place in the life of one of Arthur Scotts daughters. Of this, he was damned sure, and after twenty years away, those phone calls must have scared Arthur more than the thought of moving back to Kansas.

Not once, in all their time together, has Arthur taken Celia back to his hometown, never even considered a visit. Here, on Bent Road, he lost his oldest sister, Eve, when he was a teenager. She died, killed in a fashion that Arthur has never been willing to share. Hell look at Evie sometimes, their youngest daughter, usually when the morning light catches her blue eyes or when her hair is freshly washed and combed, and hell smile and say she is the spitting image of his sister. Nothing more, rarely even uses her nameEve. But now, the closer he gets to home, the faster he drives, as if he is suddenly regretting all those years away.

Under the full moon, Daniel leans forward, hanging his arms over the front seat. Dads truck is definitely gone. Ever since sunset, Mama has clenched the steering wheel with both hands, leaned forward with a straight back and struggled to keep Dads taillights in sight. But the road ahead has been dark for the last several minutes.

At the top of the hill, Daniel lifts his hind end off his seat and stretches to get the best view. That could be a set of taillights disappearing over the next rise. Mama must see them, too, because she presses on the gas. Once theyve crested the hill, the wind grabs the station wagon, rocking it from side to side. Daniel lays a hand on Mamas shoulder. Since hes not old enough to drive, its the best he can do. Before they left Detroit, Dad said he hoped Kansas would make a man of Daniel since Detroit damn sure didnt. A hand on Mamas shoulder is part of being a man.

Mama, look there, he whispers, sitting back so that he can see out the window on the other side of Evie. For a moment, he sounds like Dad, but then his voice breaks and he is a boy again.

Is it your father? Mama leans right and then left, straining to see what lies ahead.

No, Daniel says. Out in the field. Something is out there.

Mama locks her elbows. I cant look right now. What is it?

I see it, Evie says. Two of them. Three maybe. What are they?

There, Daniels says. Coming toward us. Theyre getting closer.

Outside the passenger side window, two shadows race toward the carround, clumsy shadows that bounce and skip over the rolling field. Behind them comes a third. The shadows grow, jumping higher as they near the road. The wind picks up the third and tosses it ahead of the second. Theyre several times the size of watermelons and gaining speed as they draw closer.

What do you see, Daniel? Mama asks.

Dont know, Mama. I dont know.

Nearing another shallow valley, Mama eases up on the brakes.

There they are again. As the car begins another climb, the front end riding higher than the back, the shadows return, running along the side of the road, gaining on the car as the hill slows it down. The shadows skip into the moonlight and turn into round bunches of bristle, rolling, tumbling.

Tumbleweeds, Evie shouts, rolling down her window. Theyre tumbleweeds. The wind rushes into the car, drowning out the last of her voice.

Daniel, do you see your father? Mama tries to shout but theres not much left of her voice. It barely carries over the noise of the wind. She leans forward, like shes willing the car up the hill, willing Dads truck to reappear. Close that window, she says.

The rush of air slows as Evie cranks her window shut. On her small, chubby hands, tiny dimples pucker over each knuckle. Outside the car, the tumbleweeds are trailing them, gaining on them. Its almost as if theyre hunting them. Up ahead, near the top of the hill, the road curves.

Daniel, look. Can you see him?

No, Mama. No.

A tight swirl of dust, rising like smoke in the yellow light, marks the road ahead. Mama drives into the cloud that is probably dirt kicked up by Dads truck. The road bends hard to the right and disappears beyond the top of the hill. Mama jams her palms against the steering wheel, leans into the door. The wind slams into the long, broad side of the station wagon.

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